


Asleep (or the five times John left Sherlock a note, and the one time he was caught)

by Brilliant



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Teenlock, Unilock, or so we hope
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-29
Updated: 2015-05-24
Packaged: 2018-03-26 08:20:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3843829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brilliant/pseuds/Brilliant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock reluctantly moves in to his dorm room only to be faced with the seemingly impossible challenge of living with his crush of over two years, John Watson. </p><p>John doesn't seem to mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. No hope, no harm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First chapter is just sort of setting the scene/mood, that's why it's so short + nothing really happens.. Bare with, bare with... ;-)

Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. W. Sherlock S. Holmes and John H. Watson. John Watson and Sherlock Holmes. 

It doesn't sound right, whichever way he puts it. No matter how many times he turns it around in his head and even on his tongue, tasting the sound of the two names together. It doesn't fit. 

And how could it? They're practically the polar opposites of each other. Sherlock is lanky, pale, quiet and abnormally interested in crime. John Watson is short, blonde and the captain of the rugby team. Used to be, Sherlock corrects himself. And the main focus of Sherlock's attention for over two years, for as long as they went to the same school. It had been absolutely torturous going to school every day with him there, seeing him flirt with the cheerleaders and joke with his friends. When they finally graduated - Sherlock two years early - Sherlock couldn't wait to start a life free of the gigantic distraction of the older rugby captain. It slowed him down and he couldn't count the times he'd missed an important detail because he was thinking of, or looking at, John Watson. 

He'd thought this would now be over, seeing as they'd go to university. They'd leave their hometown. He would never even risk the chance of bumping into John (Watson, he added in thought; he couldn't not say his last name or he'd get even more attached than he already was) while shopping for groceries because they'd live in different cities.

Or, of course, that's what he'd thought. 

The harsh reality hit him the day he was moving into his dorm room. He was carrying two cardboard boxes and had a leather bag flung over his shoulder. Even as he was nearing the room 221, he heard someone talking inside. This of course wasn't anything earth-shattering, seeing as he knew he'd have to put up with a roommate. Even after he'd sulked at Mycroft for over two months for not fixing him his own room. His brother had said it was all part of the "uni experience" as he called it, and refused to help in any way. 

He was mentally cursing his brother as he came to a stop at the door. He'd have to share his room with a moronic university student, who'd no doubt be more interested in partying and celebrating his freedom from parents than in actual work. The mere thought nearly drove Sherlock to call Mummy and try persuading her - again - to rent him a flat. But he'd promised he'd at least try. One month, they'd agreed. And if after that he still wants to move, he'll get a flat. 

One month. He could do one month, he assured himself. He took a deep breath and reached for the handle.

And then, something caught his eye. He hadn't noticed before - he cursed himself - due to the boxes somewhat blocking his sight, but there it was. Under the room number, an A4 sheet of paper. And on it, in black ink, the printed words:

Room 221  
Sherlock Holmes  
John Watson

He was sure his breathing stopped. He needed to turn back, needed to call Mummy. She'd understand. They didn't agree to this. Sharing a room with an idiotic uni student? Manageable. Sharing a room with John Watson? He couldn't... He couldn't possibly...

Oh! But suddenly, it was all clear to him. Both John and Watson were very common English names. It was a mere coincidence. His heart seemed to calm. All right, it was all right. 

And then the door opened. Or, to put more accurately, slammed in his face. Sherlock, who had been deep in thought and didn't notice the handle moving, was thrown off balance and to the corridor floor. 

He gasped in shock as his back hit the ground. He'd lost the grip on his boxes and they'd flown to the floor as well, books skidding further down the hallway. But neither the shock nor embarrassment of having just being knocked the wind out of couldn't compete with the sheer terror he felt as his eyes met the ones of the boy who'd caused it. 

This was definitely not all right. This was definitely his John Watson. And he looked so apologetic Sherlock would have laughed (if this wasn't him and if this wasn't a dorm hallway).

"Oh, God, are you all right?" The boy knelt down beside him. But by that point, Sherlock's brain was in full panic mode. He nodded whilst trying desperately not to make any more eye contact and gather his things as fast he could. 

"Here, let me help," John said as he started to pick books and notebooks off the floor. There was genuine concern in his voice. Sherlock felt his stomach twist. 

"N-no, I'm alright, thank you, sorry," he blabbed, trying to get John to leave and end this encounter as soon as possible. But John wouldn't pay attention. His back was to Sherlock as he hunched on the ground, putting things back into boxes. And, God, he was so beautiful. Sherlock couldn't help admiring his back, the way his muscles moved under his flannel shirt, the softness of his hair. He needed John to leave, now, or he'd never solve this. Seeing as all his boxes were packed up again anyway, he stood up. So did John.

"You really didn't have to do that,-" he started, his face bright red.

"Of course I did! I knocked you down, it's the least I can do," John said. He hesitated for a moment, giving Sherlock a quite thorough once-over. Sherlock tried his best, but couldn't quite manage avoiding John's gaze and their eyes met, once again. He was sure he was blushing even harder than when he first hit the ground. He decided it best to focus staring on the floor.

"Hey... I know you, don't I?" The blonde asked.

"I don't think so," Sherlock supplied.

"No, wait, wait, I can get this," John continued, not leaving Sherlock any room to escape this conversation. He couldn't bare being the object of John's scrutiny, it was far, far too much. But he had no other choice. John stared at him, squinting his eyes. Suddenly, realization dawned in them. 

"You're from school, aren't you?" He said, sounding far too pleased for figuring out something so unimportant. Sherlock resisted the urge to tell him how high the chances were of him being, as he said, "from school". He just nodded. 

"Right, I knew it. I've seen you!" John beamed at him. Sherlock knew he had to say something, but he couldn't. His throat was dry. 

"You're a quiet one, huh?" John asked, his smile still not faltering. Sherlock cleared his throat.

"Sorry, I-" he started, but he didn't know how to end the sentence. 

Suddenly, John's eyes widened a notch. 

"Oh, wait. No, this is brilliant. You're- this is your room too, right? You're..," he turned to look at the door, "...Sherlock Holmes, right? I knew I'd heard your name somewhere!"

Sherlock felt his stomach going into knots, furling and unfurling. He couldn't help thinking about how much only the name John Watson meant to him, and how little his name meant to John. How he didn't even remember it, had to read it again from the paper on their door. John looked at him once more, smiling, his eyes shining warmly. Sherlock couldn't breathe.

"Look, I have to go - as I'm sure you noticed," John said, smiling, "but I'll see you later, right?"

Sherlock's tongue finally allowed him to speak. 

"I don't think you will. I'm..," he couldn't find the right words, he couldn't, "...not staying," he finishes lamely, biting his lower lip. 

He would later write this off as a figment of his imagination, but at that moment he was sure he saw John's smile diminish, even if just a bit.

"Oh... Why?" he asked, taken aback. 

"It's... I'm getting a flat," he said, and what kind of a horrible response was that? 

John took a shallow breath and frowned, but smiled again, ever so mutedly. "Well, alright," he said, looking pointedly at Sherlock's boxes, still sitting packed up on the ground.  
"Don't forget your things then," he said, smirking, raising one eyebrow, and Sherlock was sure John knew he had been bluffing. He swallowed thickly.

"I won't."

John nodded, waved goodbye and stepped over the boxes, leaving. "Thank you," Sherlock murmured to his back.

"You're welcome," John responded quite loudly, looking over his shoulder and - this was just mocking Sherlock, now - winking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love flirty John Watson okay so I promise it's only going to get worse from now on ;-)


	2. Just another false alarm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SORRY sorry ok let's agree that the countdown starts in chapter 3. Try not to be very mad at me for dragging this out so long... ;-)

Sherlock lays in bed, thinking. Cursing in his head. Cursing everyone. Mummy, Mycroft, John bloody Watson. 

He'd thought his mother would understand his problem, she'd get him a flat straight away and tell him how sorry she was that this had happened. Or, in the very least, get him moved to a different room.

No such luck.

Because apparently, this was not an emergency. Apparently she thought "You're stronger than you think," and "What if he likes you too?" And "You'll hurt the poor boy's feelings if you leave now, after meeting him!". Because apparently Sherlock's, her actual son's, feelings were of no interest to her. And apparently all of the other rooms were full already. The best Sherlock got out of her - Mycroft wouldn't even pick up his phone, or answer to any, however desperate or threatening, texts - was a repeat of the "one month" promise. 

So Sherlock is laying in his dorm room bed, fuming. And, simultaneously, being the most panicked, out of his mind anxious, that he's ever been. He told John Watson he was leaving. John Watson winked at him. They said their goodbyes. And now, John Watson will come back and find the nerd he went to the same school with for a few years still there, laying in bed. Sherlock can't, for the life of him, think of a proper response to John discovering him there. "I changed my mind"? What, again? As if John hadn't already noticed him almost moving in before but then deciding against it. God, he must be angry. Or, at least, disappointed he won't get his own room or another roommate. Lord knows Sherlock wouldn't be his ideal choice for one.

He jerks up as the door opens. It's John (and of course, who else could it be?). He sees Sherlock and gives him a smile that lights up his whole face. 

"Staying?" He asks. 

"Yes, um, there was a sort of an, um- a mix-up," Sherlock scrambles for an excuse. But John just grins at him.

"I'm sure there was," he says, shutting the door and putting down his bag. Sherlock sits up on his bed and leans against the wall, only now realizing how wrong his previous position must have looked. John was stood next to his own bed, fiddling with something on his phone. But now he flops down next to Sherlock. On Sherlock's bed. In their shared room. Where he, in fact, has his own bed. Sherlock's breathing stutters.

"Hi," John says. 

"H-hi," Sherlock stammers in reply. 

"So..." John says and, oh, God, is he making conversation now? "What are you in for?" Sherlock can't tear his eyes from the other boy's deep blue ones. Oceans, he thinks, they're like oceans; but so soft and warm and inviting, so definitely in somewhere near the equator... And he's reminded of John looking at him, eyebrows raised - expecting an answer. 

"S-sorry?" 

John smiles. "You know, what are you studying?"

Sherlock doesn't know how to reply. He should try to be witty, and funny, and clever. Everyone always tells him how clever he is. So why can't he be now, when he needs to?

"Chemistry, mostly," he breathes out. Brilliant, he thinks. Truly, words of a genius.

"Right, right," John nods. But he seems to be focusing on something going on in his mind, and not on Sherlock's words. (Well, any sane person would, Sherlock muses. Who'd actually waste their time on him, and more importantly, why would John Watson, of all people, even think about him?)

"Sorry, I was just," he looks Sherlock straight in the eye. Sherlock's heart skips a beat. And he cannot look away. "I knew I knew you from somewhere," John says, "and you've just reminded me. You're a bit of a geek, aren't you?" 

Sherlock goes beet red. Of course. John was a rugby player - captain, in fact. He was a nerd. They were natural enemies. John would start to torment him; soon, he'd be over the crazy crush he'd developed on the boy, but at the cost of being beaten by him. Of course. He nods, not knowing how else to answer. Lying wouldn't work anyway.

But John just grins at him. 

"What?" Sherlock asks, apparently having gained a bit of his voice back from the sheer shock of seeing John so amused just from thinking of how he could bully the geek living with him. How was this so funny to him?

"Nothing," John replies. "But you were like the smartest person in the whole school, right? Including the staff." He beams at Sherlock, whose face could now be used to describe the word "confusion" in a dictionary. He just blinks very slowly. This doesn't make any sense. 

"You graduated, what, three years early?" John asks.

Sherlock clears his throat and manages to croak out "Two." 

"Still! Bloody impressive! And now we're living together, who'd have thought it?" John seems just genuinely happy and this does not translate to anything Sherlock could make sense of. Is he truly so happy because he'll get to bully the smartest kid in their - former, no less - school? Why is he still smiling?

"You really are a quiet one," John laughs at the younger boy's unresponsiveness. When Sherlock still doesn't answer with anything more than a wide-eyed, bewildered stare, he raises his eyebrows at him.

"Nothing?" John queries. "Are you- did I offend you?" he asks, unconsciously leaning away from Sherlock - and it's only now that the younger boy notices how devastatingly close he'd been leaning before. He's frowning now, and it takes everything Sherlock has to not try to smooth down the crease between his eyebrows with his thumb. 

"No," is another one of his plain, one word answers. John doesn't look too sure about it. He worries at his lower lip, sucking it in - oh, God, he really has no idea what that's doing - and murmurs, now having seemingly overcome his momentary worry:

"Must be the nerves. Don't worry, you'll be OK, you just need to make yourself at home here and you'll be fine," he says as he smiles encouragingly at Sherlock. He proceeds to stand up from the bed (and Sherlock already misses the heat radiating off him as he makes a plan to never wash that comforter again).

"Right," John continues and looks around the room for a moment, puzzled. "I'm.. Not entirely sure why I came back," he says, but then sees his bag on the floor. 

"Oh, dropped that off, right. Silly me," he says with a smile - more to himself than the other boy in the room, Sherlock figures. John goes on to dig in his bag for his wallet and phone and shoves them into his jeans' pockets. He turns to face Sherlock - who has now put on his best indifferent face - again. 

"Well, I'm off," he says to the red-faced boy on the bed, his eyes kind but his motives still unknown to Sherlock. And if he does see Sherlock biting the inside of his lip hard enough to draw blood, he's kind enough to not mention it. John has just grabbed the door handle when he turns back.

"Except... There's this party tonight," he offers. "You know, like a, well, sort of getting to know each other thing-" he stops when he sees the gaping horror in the younger boy's eyes. "There's booze...?" he tries but Sherlock's terrified expression stays on, glued to his pale face. "I guess not then," he smirks. 

"Sorry," Sherlock manages to stammer out, staring at the bedsheets.

"Don't be. I'm sure it would've been devastatingly boring for you anyway... Still, good way to make some new friends," John says in response, and he sounds almost... what? Comforting? Sherlock is losing his grip on this, he can't read John properly, can't see what he's planning behind those ocean blue eyes. But he is so kind, with his compliments that keep falling out of his mouth like they are all true, like it's nothing... Sherlock almost believes him.

"Bye-bye, Sherlock Holmes," John then says with a wink that sends shivers down Sherlock's spine and suddenly he knows exactly what his plans for the night include. "I'll be thinking about you all night," the blonde boy murmurs, eyes never leaving Sherlock. His voice still sounds so kind, even at those words, that Sherlock feels a heat coil in the pit of his stomach. And then the door closes behind him. 

"Bye," Sherlock breathes, although he's sure John doesn't hear him. 

\---

After John leaves, Sherlock kneels down at the edge of his bed to pull out his boxes. He'd had them in such great order, book index, sock index, record index,... But when John was putting his things back, he couldn't have known. So it takes Sherlock a bit longer than it would have to find what he's looking for. 

After a minute or two, he triumphantly pulls the tattered MP3 player from between two of his shirts. Luckily for him, the headphones are still connected to it, the cord wound around the small blue player. Sherlock makes quick work of untangling them before he slides the boxes back under his bed and lies down.  
He needs to think, think like he's never thought before. Unravel the mystery that is John Watson (with his dust blonde hair and ocean eyes and strong arms) living with him. So he tries the only thing that's ever worked in calming him that doesn't involve experimenting (be it with pig guts or drugs, he thinks to himself, and winces at the thought of the latter).

He puts in his earbuds and shuts his eyes, pressing play. By now, he's known the buttons on the player for years; he doesn't bother looking. He tries desperately to not think of John Watson when the voice, the voice he's known so long, and really the only voice he's ever trusted, in his ears sings:

"... _Well, I wonder_  
_do you see me when we pass_  
_I half-die_..."

He bites his lip at the thought of long school days when he would pass John in the hallways and never dare look at him directly for fear he'd burn up right then and there. That line had been one of the more crucial ones to his life, since he'd always wondered if John saw him. If he noticed him. Now of course, he knew John had seen him.

But he wouldn't dare hope for more.

As the songs go on, each pulling at Sherlock's heart achingly, reminding him of the blonde boy more than he'd like, Sherlock starts drifting off to sleep. He didn't plan on doing it. The ceiling lamp is still lit. He is supposed to be thinking. But he can't bring himself to stand up, or even open his eyes.

When the same song comes on again, completing one round, Sherlock doesn't notice. But somewhere, in the back of his mind, he hears the words:

"... _please keep me in mind,  
please keep me in mind_..."

and allows another jagged scar to be torn over his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3, the countdown begins! Thanks so much for all your kudos + bookmarks + comments, they really mean a lot!


	3. I started something

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the first note is left and confusion is felt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woop woop, chapter three is here! I hope you like it!

1.

It's past midnight when John comes back. The lady at the door who's supposed to be reprimanding students who arrive after curfew just smiles at him. He figures it isn't that big of a deal since classes haven't started yet. 

When he arrives at his room and gently shuts the door, he lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding. Sherlock is sprawled on his bed, headphone cords tangled around him. And he's sound asleep. John takes in the sight of the lamp still flooding his - their - room in lazy yellow light, and flicks it off without a second thought.

The room is now tinted dark blue, almost indigo, from the moonlight shining in from their window. Sherlock's already pale skin - arms, face, neck - is now almost translucent, contrasting his raven black curls. John can't help but wonder what it would feel like to press his lips to that long neck, to feel the boy's pulse humming under his skin. To make him blush that way he had before.

The party wasn't anything special, but he did manage to get pleasantly drunk, and now his whole body is buzzing with the effects of alcohol. And through that drunken haze, a somewhat mad idea pops in his head. He doesn't know why he likes it so much, but he finds himself already rooting through his bag in search of a pen. 

He finds a ballpoint blue pen, the one he uses the most. As quietly as possible he sneaks up to Sherlock's bed and squats down next to it. Getting hold of one of the boy's hands isn't as hard as he'd initially thought. He is very much sprawled and the hand John is looking for is quite near to the edge of the bed, and at a quite fitting angle too. 

He pauses for a moment, pen in his hand. John does, truly, feel sorry for the younger boy. He'd looked so confused and scared before, his eyes wide and breathing stuttering. John convinces himself that he is, in his way, just trying to help. And he is sure that he'd love to be friends with Sherlock.

If he weren't this attracted to him.

It would definitely, definitely make things worse for Sherlock, being flirted with. With his roommate fancying him and trying to chat him up at any given moment. It would be a very bad idea even trying.

So John tells himself that this is what any other friend would do, that this isn't any sort of sick way of trying to seduce his roommate. He just wants to leave the boy a message. So that maybe he'd relax a bit.

And really, his drunken brain doesn't need that much convincing. Especially since he's already squatting by the edge of Sherlock's bed. 

John takes the cap off the pen and writes on the boy's pale, gorgeous, and, as John can't help but remark in thought, already an awful lot paper-like skin:

_It's all fine._

This, however, is as much for one night as he can take, so he rolls into his own bed, chucking the pen beneath his pillow. He takes one last look at the boy across the room from him and wonders what he did to deserve sharing a room with this angel-faced genius. He closes his eyes reluctantly, not wanting to miss an opportunity to openly gape at the boy. And falls into a deep sleep almost immediately. 

\---

Sherlock wakes and takes a minute to recognize the room surrounding him. No large poster of the table of elements, no books about unsolved murder mysteries in the shelf. Well, no shelves, as it is.

After a brief moment of confusion he remembers, and almost audibly groans at the situation he's being put in. He checks the clock on his MP3 player - 5:04 AM. Now he really does groan, and then hears a similar sound coming from across the room. He'd thought John would still be out, but apparently the covers on his bed were not just covers, but his roommate too. He freezes, waiting for any sign of John waking up. 

When it's been two minutes without any movements from his bed though, Sherlock finds the courage to move enough to untangle himself from his headphones. He's almost managed it when he notices it. Something, a mark of some sort, on his hand. It's still quite dark outside, with very little light in the room, but he can clearly read what it says. It's dark against his pale skin, and it reads:

_It's all fine._

Sherlock, on the other hand, is not. Who could have done this? John? He'd never- or would he? Who else could it be? He is fairly certain John had locked the door before going out, but on further examination he finds that their room doesn't even have a lock on the door.

Of course, he curses at himself. It's a dorm room. There'd be surprise inspections. But who'd sneak in, write some nonsense on him, and sneak back out? What good would it do anyone? Has he, by any chance, attracted the attention of an eccentric bully?

His head hurts from sleeping at the wrong angle. His head hurts from dreaming of John. And something in his chest hurts from having the boy right across him, in the same room as him. 

And his head hurts from being used as a notepad by an unknown author. 

His eyelids have never been heavier when he looks at the lump of bedsheets that is snoring softly in the other bed. It feels so right to get up, crawl under the sheets and snuggle close to the boy emitting those sounds.

Sherlock just stares at what he's sure is John's back - since he is completely hidden from view by the sheets it could really be any side of him. He lies down again, closes his eyes and imagines that there's a warmth beside him, holding him, guarding him.

He reminds himself that John probably hates him by now, and Sherlock'd say it doesn't hurt to dream, but it does, it does so much.

Somewhere in the middle of this, he drifts off to a dreamless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so I know it is awfully short, and at first I wasn't going to post it as it is now. But after considering how I want it to go on, I decided to leave it like this and continue with the events in the next chapter. 
> 
> I very much appreciate all comments and kudos and bookmarks!! And as always, please do let me know what you think! <3


	4. I'm not sorry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John sleeps a lot and Sherlock is flustered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bare with, bare with! Chapter 4 is here!

John holds a certain pride for his ability to dodge hangovers. He’s not entirely certain whether he just doesn’t drink enough or whether he’s just supernaturally resistant to it. His best guess so far has been that this runs in the family – when he was still living with his sister he’d see her come home at night absolutely pissed, but she’d always wake up with the barest hint of a headache or nausea, if any.

So, naturally, he expected to wake up to his alarm, maybe groggy from not sleeping enough, but definitely not hungover. Well.  
When he first opens his eyes it’s because of the bright sunlight shining on his face and making his eyelids glow red. He can’t help but wince when he turns to hide his face from the light and feels a stab of pain pierce his head. But he actually cringes at the first recollections of the previous night. Rubbing a hand at his right temple, he manages to get into a sitting position. And finally dares to look across the room.

Where, to his disappointment, no one is. John remembers squatting beside the now empty bed, holding a fountain pen in hand… what did he even write? There’s no escape from the memory of where exactly he wrote something – he could never forget the smooth, pale skin and how unearthly it looked in the moonlight – but remembering what he wrote is quite a bit harder. 

Ah, but there it is. 

And just as he remembers, the door is opened and the familiar dark-haired figure steps in. He doesn’t see John looking at him at first, but when he does, his face goes a frankly alarming shade of pink almost immediately. He blinks at John, who is still too sleepy to try and stop his curious eyes from staring at the younger boy.

„You’re up early,“ John manages after trying to clear his voice. In response, he receives a raised eyebrow from Sherlock.

„I’m… really not,“ he says, staring at the floor and seemingly biting his cheek to keep from smiling. 

„Oh?“ John tilts his head in confusion. „Then…“ he reaches for his alarm clock and stares at it for a moment before he registers the time. „Shit!“ he stammers at the sight of 2:34 PM illuminating the screen. He was supposed to be up at seven, or eight at the latest. He’d planned on going for a run before classes started, starting the year on a positive note. Now, it seems, it’s only the first day and he’s already blown it.

Sherlock has moved to search something from his desk drawers while John’s trying to think of a plan of action. After a minute or two of considering and battling with the vicious pain shooting through his head, he decides that if he’s already slept through all his classes, he might as well continue. He’ll start fresh tomorrow. He leans back on his elbows, glancing at Sherlock’s back.

„Lost something?“ he says in his most nonchalant voice. 

„Just found it, actually,“ Sherlock says quietly, turning and waving a small notebook at John. He gives the shyest of smiles to the older boy. „I’ll… be off then,“ he swallows, putting the notebook in his bag and heading for the door. 

John smirks. „Right,“ he says. „I’ll be right here if you need me.“ And that last part sounds overly friendly even to him.

„Why would I… need… you?“ Sherlock asks, and coming from anyone else, it would sound horrendously rude, but from him… it just sounds so terribly _lost_. 

„No reason at all,“ John smiles. Sherlock gives him a small nod and as John goes to lie back, escapes from the room.

\---

Sherlock almost trips over his own feet several times making his way to the library, and he tries as best he can, but the only logical explanation he can provide for that is that John Watson literally makes him weak in the knees. The more he thinks about it, the less likely it seems to him that it would be possible to conjure up some sort of anger against the boy to stop himself from falling further and further in love with him.

\--

Sherlock had just finished his classes for that day and after considering ways to spend as little time as possible in his room, he had decided on getting coffee and going to the library to study (or ponder over the structure of John’s shoulder blades). Everything would have worked perfectly, but after buying his coffee he discovered he’d left one of his most vital notebooks at his room. He had been in such a hurry in the morning to get out before John woke up, he’d forgotten. He prolonged the inevitable quest of going back to get it by sitting in the cafe and finishing his drink first.  


Then, an idea popped in his head. Maybe John was still in his classes. Maybe, if he went now, he’d be able to retrieve the notebook without bumping into him.  
Obviously that didn’t happen, since Sherlock had caught a spell of this horrible luck which made everything that could possibly go wrong, go wrong. So when he entered the room, John was still there. He wasn’t even doing anything, so he was free to stare at Sherlock. Which made him feel ready to sink into the Earth’s core.  


And he had just woken up. His voice was even lower than usual, and groggy with sleep. And his hair stuck out at odd angles, and his maroon shirt made Sherlock wonder how much warmth he could feel through it if he were to touch his hand to the boy's chest... His heart had started racing so he gathered his things as quick as possible. But he couldn’t help answering John’s questions or feeling his gaze burn against his back when he wasn’t facing the older boy. God, he was pathetic.

\--

Sherlock can’t get the sentence „I’ll be right here if you need me“ out of his head. And he feels disgusted with himself for being so rude to John in reply. He was just trying to protect himself, but the boy has been nothing but kind to him so far. It’s becoming increasingly harder to reason with himself, to make „if you’re rude to him, you won’t get hurt“ sound logical.  


He sits down at a desk in the library and is opening his chemistry textbook when he notices the now almost nonexistent blur of words written in blue ink on his hand. Another mystery yet to be unravelled. It makes him uneasy, but, surpisingly, doesn’t concern him nearly as much as The Mystery Of Why John Watson Is Kind To Sherlock Holmes.

\---

2.

Sherlock manages to spend a couple of hours in the library, barely focusing on work. When he finally gives up and goes back to his dorm, he deliberately goes the long way round, not even considering any shortcuts. But as the library is part of the university complex the same way the dorms are, it doesn’t take him more than 15 minutes until he’s reached the door of his ( _their_ ) room. Even if he does stop several times to make sure he won't look too out of breath when he gets back.  


When he enters, he is somewhat surprised to find John still asleep in his bed. He seems weirdly glowing, a sheen of sweat on his forehead and shirt clinging to his chest. Sherlock recognizes the tell-tale signs of a fever. When John was still in his bed mid-day, Sherlock had attributed it to the fact he was out late the night before and was quite probably hungover. Now the groggy voice Sherlock had so loved gets another explanation – the older boy’s throat was sore.  


He knows John is sick, but he doesn’t know what to do. He gets a glass of water and places it on John’s bedside table. He hesitantly touches his hand to the boy’s forehead – he justifies this as taking his temperature, but has a hard time pulling his hand away. He smooths the blonde hairs out of John’s face, ever so carefully as to not wake him. He feels a pang of guilt as he’s sure this is more for his than for John’s good.  


Sherlock could give John paracetamol, but that would mean waking him up. So he takes a sheet of the tablets and places it next to the water. Lastly, he takes out a post-it note and sticks it on the glass, writing only one word on it, seemingly to express his compassion for John falling ill, but more to apologize for being so obsessed with the boy:

_Sorry._

\---  
When he wakes up in the middle of the night to go to the loo, he sees new words on his hand. In the same handwriting, in the same ink, in the same spot. His heart seems unsure whether to skip a beat or try and crawl out of his chest, as he reads the words:

_I’m not sorry._

Going back to his bed, his eyes take in the glass of water on which he’d pasted his small note, now almost empty. The paracetamol sheet has a couple pills less than it did before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your lovely feedback so far!! You're all truly wonderful.
> 
> And, as is tradition: what did you think? :-)


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